


A Treatise on the Art of Baritsu via Deduction

by Gothams_Only_Wolf



Series: Steampunk Powered Fandoms [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Character Death Fix, Fighting, Gen, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Sherlock Whump, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fighting is easy for Sherlock. It always has been. A look into the way he fights and a bit of fluff too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Treatise on the Art of Baritsu via Deduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainOfShips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOfShips/gifts).



> For you, lovely Mycroft! If you cannot find one? I shall make one. Your fandom posts make my day, therefore I am obliged to entertain you in equal measure. Ta! Hope this is what you were looking for?
> 
> WARNING: Sherlock kicks some serious butt and Watson helps. Blood may or may not make an appearance. Implied Jawnlock because I love the way RDJ Sherlock is so cute with his John.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes flicked over his opponent, gauging each weakness with a mental catalogue that rivaled his capacity to think. 

_Limp on the left, pulled his hamstring two weeks ago attempting to move heavy furniture. Further injury pertains to right foot, furniture most likely dropped on two smaller toes as the wince from earlier indicates. Broken? Most likely. Will need medical attention._

_Fingers pinch the area where the deltoid and bicep meet, disabling arm from function for at least three seconds whilst also causing immense pain. Dodge reflexive haymaker, right-handed. Hold onto arm; knock out left leg with well-placed kick, causing him to kneel. Pull arm until dislocation. Will take four months to heal if handled properly and with a good doctor. Permanent damage if moved before healing has finished. Prognosis? Unable to harm nor harass the homeless network. Expression upon realizing such? Priceless._

He snaps back to the present just as the haymaker is thrown, gripping the man's arm with a surprising amount of strength (from Watson's point of view), kicking with his boot against the already pained muscle. The man went down with a muffled scream, blood spilling off his lip from where it had been bitten. Sherlock dispassionately set his foot against the man's back and tugged sharply, twisting it up and in the wrong direction until he recieved another muffled scream as confirmation that the cad was down for the count. 

"Mer-Mercy!" He was greeted with golden-green eyes that could freeze the very air they cut through. 

"I showed you precisely the same amount you afforded the informant you disabled." Sherlock hissed with a sneer gracing his sharp features as easily as a smile would have on someone else. 

"Cheeking-" 

"That was the cue to stop talking, old chap." Watson purred as he flicked the sword-cane against the man's neck. "Now get out of sight and pray to God you don't encounter him again. Get that arm looked at." The man flees with a terrified look back at Sherlock's face, cradling his arm close to his chest. John watched him as he slumped in the alleyway whilst not caring for his suit in the least. 

"Ruthless I can be..." he murmurs, his mind snapping back from the fugue state of fighting with tremendous force. 

"But it is not you, my friend." John states as he squats down to look Sherlock in the eye. "You and I know that." The switch from companion of the consulting detective to lover is near infinitesimal, as is proper for the assumptions people made about them. The stigma is not one Sherlock cares to understand but he fears it will be a long time (past his life) before some sort of progress is made as politics is always slow. Thus the great friendship that no one bothers to see through. 

That is not to say that Sherlock and John are _not_ friends; the bloom from mere acquaintances took months on John's part and quite a bit of effort on Sherlock's. When they discovered the 'something more' bit... Well, society is not quite as forgiving as they would like it to be. Irene, beautiful (wonderfully complex) woman that she is, has not let slip their secret: partially because her inclinations slide in both directions and her husband approves. 

"Watson, I need a bit of pipe weed. Perhaps a jaunt around the city?" he states as though that had been his intention after all. Dusting off his suit took the work of moments as he accepted his great coat from John with ease. Sherlock's mind is back to cataloguing things that make up the everyday, the mundane and yet are bits of extraordinary use to him. John knows not to bother him too much when he feels like reading his beloved city so. 

"Well, don't get into any more trouble than you can handle, alright? I don't want Lestrade knocking on our flat door at some god-forsaken hour telling me you got in trouble... Again." Watson chides, sheathing his cane-sword expertly. The service fire-arm that his companion had never quite handed in was an Enfield Mark I. Sherlock just thanked whatever listened that John did not have to fire his weapon with deadly accuracy. "I didn't bring the pistol this time," comes the amused response as Sherlock pats John on the back. 

"Drat. And here I was hoping to deter the common folk from bothering me." he teases with a mischievous grin. "See you at the Royale?" 

"Don't be late." John sighs as he hands Sherlock his knife with an expression that warred between fondness and exasperation. Sherlock glanced about the alley for several moments before kissing John hard, leaving behind a bewildered and happy lover.

* * *

It's not long before he dons his under-city guise for a special gift he'd had made ages ago. John needed this more than Sherlock had first suspected but the mechanics were flawless and worked extremely well. 

"Well?" he pressed, flipping the goggles he normally wore for driving the horseless carriage (didn't trust horses; dangerous beasts at both ends) up to see it properly. 

"It works under clothes too. I don't see why a man such as yourself has to hide such a feat-" 

"Ah-ah. That is the wave of the future and if he does not like it, then I shall have to mail it to America." Sherlock hushes the man as he picks up the mechanical wings that were based off of Da Vinci's artwork. "Broader shoulders?"

"Shouldn't be a problem. It can adjust under adverse conditions too." comes the reply. 

Sherlock grins and turns to the mechanic with a gleam in his eye. "Make a few proto-types and call this number. Ask for Mycroft. He'll know what to do with them." He hands the man a plain card with violet ink scrawled upon the center. "Tell him that Sherlock sends his regards." 

With the gift wrapped up brown paper and twine like every other package in the city Sherlock is whistling concertos as he makes his way to Baker Street. Upon entering the flat he sees that John has fallen asleep getting ready for their favorite haunt. The man had forgotten his own birthday in the various activities they'd done, most of them something that John enjoyed. 

Sherlock had planned this day very carefully and now his lover was snoring in his plush chair, hand on his leg even whilst dreaming. It convulsed; John awoke with a pained noise in the back of his throat as he rubbed at it. Sherlock set down his package and soothed the spasms until they ceased. 

"Bad dream?" he asked as he pressed the hot-water bag against the strained muscle.

"Sher?" John blinks awake fully and pinches the bridge of his nose as he recalls where they are currently supposed to be. "My God, man, you should have said something." 

"Do you know what day it is?" Sherlock presses gently, knowing that John is still sleepy. 

"Thursday?" 

"No. It's a little more important, luv." he says with some amusement. "Use that brain you carry." John's grey eyes widened considerably as the fact registered. "However, the day was spent as any other per your request. The torte was my only concession to the date of your birth." In this, he is referring to the neatly packaged little cake from the best bakery in all of London. John smiled brightly at that. "Chocolate is always your favorite at the Royale." 

"You remembered my birthday?" the way his lover says it is a bit choked up so Sherlock attempts to lighten the mood. 

"Of course. I am lost without you," he says lightly. 

"Oh. What's in the package?" John hummed as the spasms in his leg ceased. "A gift?" 

"Astute observation, Watson." Sherlock chuckled as he handed over the light-weight set of wings. "Open it." 

John tore through the brown paper and grinned. "What are they?" 

"Wings. Of course, you'll most likely have to start low-Mmm." John tugged him down for a kiss that he enjoyed as it brought him closer to his lover. 

"I love them. Sherlock, you big softie." he crooned up at Sherlock, who found himself blushing. "Always going that extra few meters for me." 

"You are entirely worth my efforts, John." he murmurs as he presses a soft kiss to his beloved's forehead.

* * *

Great-coat whirling, Sherlock paced the length of the crime-scene with a pensive expression. He was searching everything with his gaze even as his senses were going haywire. 

"Well?" Lestrade pressed, his haggard expression indicating many late-night cases. 

"It's not a suicide." He pauses as he leans forward to examine the body. "Watson, if you would examine the ligature marks on her neck?" John knelt and examined the rope marks left behind. 

"The width does not match the thickness of the rope that was around her neck, Sherlock." 

"Recreational strangling gone wrong." He's building it in his head now that he's been prompted by his lover. "The silk rope did not leave much of an impression because of it's make and the tension it can hold. The other rope is far thicker and would have left red, struggling marks as the woman choked on her own spit. Asphyxiation, yes, but... Ah. Auto-erotic, which would explain her naked state." 

"Auto what?" Lestrade blinked at Sherlock's deduction. 

"It means she was aroused by being strangled, cut off from her air. Rough in the bedroom. Watson, check her wrists. Just one more thing and it should unfold," he murmured as John flipped her wrists over and sure enough, large bruises that indicated a man's hands decorated her flesh. "A man's hand. Search the apartments for a man about a meter and a half. Brown hair, grey eyes."

"How do you know his eye color?" John asks incredulously. 

"The guilty always revist the scene of their crime. He's right down in the street. Thinks he can get away with it." Sherlock said with a mischievous grin.

He opens the window and jumps down into the bushes, grinning when the man bolts like a startled rabbit. Sherlock mentally calculated the fleeing man's route and scuttled into a side-alley, skidding on the cobblestone as he bounded after the man with enthusiasm. Tackling the man might have been a bit much, he admits, but it was **_fun_**. They found Sherlock sitting on the man with a satisfied smirk as he'd nicked Lestrade's hand-cuffs and had the man in a supplicant position. 

"Holmes, off." He sighs dramatically but stands, tripping the man when he attempts to take off. "Good consulting detective." Sherlock crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow at his companion. "You chased after him like... Like Gladstone would have."

"Precisely why the force should have dogs partnered with people. They remember scents far clearer than humans. Altesians, I should think." he says, staring at Lestrade while he says it. "They keep people from messing about at scenes and they can feel intent, therefore no officers would be down. Bloodhounds aren't nearly big enough to be scary unless you chose the bigger breeds. Wolf-hounds maybe." He continues even as he trips the man again, causing two officers to haul the man to his feet and into the police wagon. 

"I'll see what I can do, Holmes, but you know that they would require upkeep." Lestrade sighs. 

"House them with the human they will work with. Get them trained as young puppies to recognize explosives, drugs... The uses are near endless. The application may take a few decades. The rest of Europe is using them already." he mutters as he takes John's arm, wincing at the sharp pain in his foot. Jumping out the two-storey building hadn't been his best idea but he hadn't felt it until the excitement of the chase had worn off. 

"Sherlock, that was incredibly stupid of you." John chides. "We're taking a hackney back to the flat. I will not have you walking on that." 

"Ah. I see you noticed my discomfort." Sherlock teased, keeping most of his weight on his uninjured foot as he used John as a crutch. "Look at us. We must seem quite the pair." 

"A limping cretin and a respectable doctor? Oh dear." comes the sarcastic response. 

"Excuse me, sir? I couldna help but over-hear tha' you needed a hackney?" the accented voice was attached a big, burly man with dark brown hair. The hackney was drawn by a large, surprisingly graceful horse with pristine feathering. 

"Are you not on your break?" Sherlock deduced quickly and surely, even pained as he was. "That is your lunch and your horse on her feed. We can wait." He flaps his hand limply for the man to continue eating his sandwich. 

"Wait sir? There's not many who'd wait on a driver an' his horse." the man replies. 

"We're in no particular rush." Sherlock muttered wryly as he took a seat on the ground. 

Watson loomed protectively over him, arms crossed as he looked down at Sherlock with an amused smile. "Mrs. Hudson isn't going to wash your great-coat again." 

"She will... Nanny that she is, she'd wash it due to the stain, thinking it some horrible thing. Landlady that she is, she'll insist by the end of the week." he huffed, smiling fondly at the thought of his favorite woman besides Irene. 

"Sounds like you lads are taken care of." the man states as he wipes the sandwich crumbs from his face with his sleeve. "Jerry MacKenzie at your service." 

"Well, Jerry, since you've finished, I suppose we should get to Baker Street?" Jerry and John lift him up, setting him in the hackney gently. "I feel oh-so-fragile." 

"I'll drop you again, Sherlock. Quit with the theatrics." John warns as he sits opposite of him in the hackney. 

"You like my theatrics. Otherwise where would we be?" he counters with a roguish grin.

* * *

Recovering turns out to be an exercise in his patience. He'd broken the last two toes on his right foot and Watson had immediately told him that he was not allowed to put weight on it. John also insisted on wrapping his toes to his middle one with carefully placed tongue depressors to make sure they healed straight. That left him with far too much time to think. He scraped his rosin bow over the violin, plucking absently at the strings.

"Sherlock! If you're going to pick at the violin while I have patients at least play something well." Sherlock sighed before launching into a recent composition that he knows John will like. It's fairly simple but soothing as he draws his bow carefully over the fingerings that he manages to do. He switches to an upper-beat tempo after he hears the patient's deep breath hitching. He gets lost in the music as he once did when getting lessons, blinking when John taps his shoulder and earns then both a horrendous screech from his strings. "Ouch. Is there a better way to ease you out of that mood?" 

"Food. I'll usually stop to eat." he sighs as he slides the beeswax along the bow. "I am bored, John, and I don't like it in the least. How many weeks?" 

"It's been three. You have another three left. Would you like some cold cases?" comes the answer along with John's easy smile. "Or... You could look through your mail. Write down the solutions so that you get paid for your convalescence?" Sherlock scowls at the pile of letters that gets bigger and bigger every week he's forced to stay in this chair. 

"On one condition; I may limp about the flat for at least an hour. I will not sit like a bump on a log." 

John's lips thin before he's reluctantly agreeing. "Very well. The _second_ you feel pained, sit back down. Do not power through it." 

"Good. Now, I believe Mrs. Hudson has set out dinner? May I walk to the table?" he queries. 

Convalescence does not suit him but he _waits_ , though it drives him to sink into his mind more than necessary. He's reorganized the treastise on tobacco at least three times, the mental log of John's various noises when he sleeps at least eight and the making of several types of bombs. John's tics are regularities that are stored because they are _important_. 

When the day comes that he can walk un-hindered around the flat, he shouts with joy; playing his favorite composition gleefully before carefully making his way downstairs. Once outside Sherlock breathes in the slightly foggy air, grinning at John's frown. 

"I counted. I am allowed out of my confinement Watson. Fisticuffs? I want _out_. Please?" he pleads, finally using the puppy-eyes he knew John could not resist. 

"... Very well. But does it have to be fisticuffs?" 

Sherlock replies with the sharpest grin he can manage. " ** _Yes._** " 

* * *

He hasn't been in the boxing scene and there are new opponents as the old ones had faded into defeat. 

"Look lads, Holmes has found his way back!" Sherlock merely removes his jacket, neckerchief and shirt with the same methodical movements as always. "A bit slow undressing-Oh." The bullet as well as the meathook scars are still fresh from his time spent under Moriarty's 'care.' He cracks his neck, back and hands before lolling on John's shoulder like an oversized cat. The fighting is fierce but Sherlock's in an observing trance. 

_Left hook often not avoided due to familiarity with right haymaker. Ambidextrous. Broken both nose and ribs, fractured even to today. Earns living by fighting. Holds some form of honor, indicating a noble heritage; holds more common features. Bastard? Most likely._

The man wins every round thrown at him and then he points to Sherlock.

"Him. I want to fight tha' tough lookin' bastard right there." The thick, square-tipped finger deliberately misses Watson and targets him. 

"Not a bastard but I concede." he quips, flexing his fingers. The bell rings but Sherlock waits for the man to move before he formulates a plan. 

_No discernible weaknesses aside from ribs and nose. Glass jaw, perhaps, considering the way he shields it so heavily. Multiple scars from hard work and fighting. Was recently in the tropics; bastard son turned soldier for a war he did not want. Ah. Inside left elbow is dis-jointed. Possible point of tension and can be exploited if he reaches too far. Powder burns? Handgun or explosives. Sulfur. Accelerant. Coal. Steam-engine manager. Which track? Nevermind. Disable but do not hurt pride. Maybe useful in new case._

_Block right haymaker, juke to the right to avoid left hook-_

"Oi! You fightin' or what, Holmes?!" The announcer snarls at him. A rude gesture is caught by most of the crowd but happens to be clearly directed at the idiot who spoke. "Watch it!" 

"I always watch." he snaps back, causing the crowd to boo at the announcer. The right haymaker is easily dodged and the left hook which had gotten so many before him was blocked with an elbow. Sherlock spun to the right to avoid it even as he brings his hand to land a solid body-shot. His mind and body work as one in this moment shining brilliantly as he practically floats around this stalwart, plucky fighter. 

_Land the body-shot, avoid driving one-two combination; duck the double-fisted maneuver that took down fighter number three. Dip under, punch jaw with intent to dislocate._

Sherlock practically clung to the earth of the simple ring as he slipped past the man's defenses without telegraphing his intentions. The quick strike was more a chop than a punch but it couldn't be helped. The man's jaw popped audibly and the crowd hissed in sympathy. He didn't let his opponent recover as he clapped his hands over the man's ears. 

_Disorient. Man knows how to fix jaw; possible medical professional? No. Too obvious. Field medicine? More appropriate. Distract. Fracture jaw. Bow out when obvious that match cannot continue. Man keeps his honor. John's bets are not made in vain. The best outcome for all involved._

Skidding to a stop, Sherlock waited for the man to pop his jaw back into place. Predator tracked prey's gaze to a woman in the balcony above; heavily pregnant and obviously there to support her husband. Sherlock glanced at John, looking at the woman to make it clear why he had to lose. 

John nodded and Sherlock finally paid attention to his right leg. It gave out, not allowing him to stand at all; his lover had been right to suggest a less-rousing sport. Perhaps a bit of physical movements before-hand would have helped.

"Sorry. Just recovered and didn't listen to my doctor." He motions John over and his lover shakes his head at Sherlock's ability to lose when an innocent is at stake. "Watson, I think the flat sounds quite nice now." 

"Wait jus' a second there, boyo. You mean ta tell me I've been fightin' a man tha' isn't even supposed ta stand? I was waiting for this crossing for weeks an' ya jus' opted out?" 

"He has got the hump, Holmes. I do believe that you were his only challenge." The man was mumchance as he watched John help Sherlock up, his leg giving out again as he leaned heavily on his friend. "Sorry, old chap."

"You're a real pippin, ya are, Holmes. I know you saw m'wife. Tumbled on it, didn't I?" the man murmurs wryly. "Gave me a wizard time, ya did. When you're done havin' th' vapors, come look us up. Name's Silas Cairde. We live a wee way down th' road from here. My thanks and God bless ye." 

"And may he bless you as well, Messr. Cairde." John replied as Sherlock limped out of the fisticuffs ring with him. "You are far too soft. You're lucky I bet against you, otherwise I would have had the blue devils." 

"Against? Due to my-" he muttered, trying to think around the irrational amount of pain. 

"Now you're the one being a josser. Stupidity does not suit a Holmes, I think." John scoffs lightly as he supports more of Sherlock's weight than necessary. 

"We've been known to fall into the occasional nasty jar. May we go home and kip?" Sherlock sighs tiredly, suddenly feeling his years. 

"Certainly, Holmes." 

John soothed his throbbing toes with ice and elevated his foot on a cushion. Mrs. Hudson (nanny that she was) had brought them tea, fresh and hot. Sherlock can smell the various spices from the chai she'd bought last week in the market from her chee-chee friend. He cradles his tea as he glances up at a worried John, who is fussing about the flat in an attempt to keep it clean. 

"John." the soft tone in which he says it gets John away from the corner with the Kama Sutra book he'd been given ages ago. "Sit with me?" 

"Why must you push your limits, Sherlock?" comes the equally soft reply as John also pours himself a cup, sweetening it with sugar cubes and a tad bit of cream. John remains standing, stiff and uncooperative in every sense of the word. 

"I... apologize. Mayhap I was too hasty to be free of confinement. I have paid the price. Come, sit with me." He makes his meaning clear by patting his thigh, peering at his lover over the rim of his tea cup. 

"Alright. But the second we hear a knock, off I get." John concedes with a sweet smile. They cuddle on the massively over-stuffed chair, John's weight hardly a bother since he is so very lanky. "Did you enjoy your outing, luv?" 

"I did. I have learnt to listen and that perhaps a less... exciting sport is needed to confirm it. Feeding the ducks should not be too much of a hardship? I can sit when necessary." he hums congenially. 

"After our noon tea, then?" John says as he cards his fingers through Sherlock's unruly locks. "Mrs. Hudson did say she was going to do laundry."

"I suppose you handed her everything but the cleanest set?" he quips but the tone is nothing like his usual snark. 

"Of course." comes the answer, John's lips twitching as he suppressed a smile. 

"Figures. Have you thrown away the experiment on the table? That was critical for a case." Sherlock responds with the sweetest grin he can, kissing John's jaw with tiny, loving butterfly kisses. John arched his neck so that Sherlock could kiss up or down as he so chose. He chose down, pressing his face into the crook between shoulder and neck. 

"No. I knew that because you'd labeled it. Are you falling asleep on me?" comes the vibrating hum of John's voice. 

"Yes." he's slumped into John's hold, eyes half-lidded as his mind slows down. 

"Good night, Sherlock." John doesn't bother to move when Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door, her steps light and decent at this hour. 

Sherlock snuggles further in with a happy sigh before dozing off with the words, "Love you." 

"I love you too." John says to a sleeping Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> Ha! So much research. I had to look up police-dog history in the UK and that was exhausting. Guns made during the Anglo-Afghan War; I eventually just went with military-issued guns on that little jaunt. How long various injuries would take to heal... and the history of tea. Yeah. 
> 
> Mycroft, enjoy. The rest of you-Nitpick my words! Tell me where it falls short, how it related to you, ect. Did I get his voice right? It feels more like Ben's than RDJ at some points.
> 
> Not Brit-picked in the least, so you tell me if my 1870s British slang is weird?
> 
> Website I got them from: http://edwardianpromenade.com/resources/a-glossary-of-slang/


End file.
